He handed her the cat.
A mewl mixed with his purr. The cat’s head swiveled toward Davidson.
“Nice Aby. Good ticking in his coat.” He scratched behind Bastian’s ear, and the cat nosed the man’s hand. “Well, g’night, then. Hope you can still catch some z’s.” He gave her a lopsided grin and turned away.
“Th-thank you.” Sam watched his broad-shouldered figure stride into the night. She hugged her cat close. “Traitor,” she murmured into his perked ear. Her heart was a traitor, too. It had done a distinct pitty-pat when Ryan Davidson smiled.
THREE
Muted dock lighting played over Ryan’s bedroom ceiling in rhythm with the slight sway of the water beneath the boat. He lay on his back with his arms under his head. The murmur of the river teased his ears. The soothing sights and sounds usually had him out in seconds, but his carefully constructed world had blown apart again with the discovery of those pictures.
How had the roll of film ended up at Old Man Morris’s dry cleaners?
He’d hoped a walk through the area might jar his recollection of something suspicious he’d seen that night. But then, who was to say he’d encountered a single thing connected to his family’s deaths? Would he even have noticed if he had? Arriving in Apple Valley following the end of his sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin, he’d zigged and zagged aimlessly through the neighborhood, dreading going home, his father’s angry words from their phone call echoing in his head.
His gut soured. He heaved himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and rubbed his forehead.
Dad, would you ever have understood my decision not to follow in your footsteps as an investment banker? His family’s deaths had robbed him of the opportunity to find out. What if he’d headed straight home? Could he have saved them? Or would he have joined them stone-cold in the grave?
At least his dad hadn’t killed himself or mom and Cassie. A breath trembled in his lungs. How did he feel about that? Relieved. Yeah, beyond belief. But guilty, too. Why had he ever believed the cops’ conclusion about that night?
But if his dad didn’t do it, then someone else murdered them all. Ryan shot to his feet. He paced, fists clenched, bare feet smacking the hardwood floor.
Who would do such a thing? A psycho? Then why hadn’t the nutcase been caught committing similar atrocities? That kind seldom stopped killing voluntarily.
But if the murders were done in cold blood for a reason, then finding the cause would reveal the killer. Sure, the police were back on the case, but why should he trust them? They’d treated the tragedy like a slam-dunk murder/suicide and closed the book. Now, ten years after the fact, the authorities were sniffing up a cold trail with dozens of hotter cases piled on their docket.
No, he was the only one with a strong enough motive to dig and not give up until he found something.
Dad, I promise I’ll find out who killed our ladies and you.
Too bad he couldn’t have a chat with Abel Morris and ask where the guy found the film. Miss Reid sure got stuck with a mess not of her own making, but maybe she knew something from scouring through the building that she didn’t realize was important. It might be in his best interests to be friendly with her. He’d shot himself in the foot tonight with his prowler act, but maybe finding the cat had helped his cause.
Tomorrow, he’d do what he could to cement a better impression. Besides, even if nothing further panned out in the investigation, a guy would be certifiable to pass up the opportunity to get acquainted with a smart, fine-looking woman who showed rare character by turning in those photos. Not many people would step forward these days to get involved in someone else’s troubles. He knew lots of people who would have just shredded the nasty pictures and gone on with their lives without a second thought.
Ryan stretched out on the bed and willed his limbs to relax. What would it take to make Miss Reid smile?
At 9:00 a.m., someone knocked on the front door of the cleaners. Not the police. They were already here. She answered the summons to find a grinning teenage boy bearing a gift.
Flowers? Who would they be from?
Sam took the enormous glass vase from the delivery person’s hand, tipped him, and then carried the vase of white calla lilies to her office desk. She worked the small envelope from its holder and opened it.
Humble apologies. Your Midnight Marauder.
Sam laughed. Who would ever have thought she’d find anything funny about an apparent break-in attempt? Her eyes narrowed. Oooh, this Davidson guy was slick. He’d better not have some notion of getting on her good side so she’d let him hang around. She had a business to get started and enough distractions without adding one more to the list, even if Bastian had given his stamp of approval to the big, blond outdoorsman.
A crisp thank-you note accepting his apology ought to be the end of it. A quick search on the Internet yielded the address for Davidson Houseboats. Sam dashed off her thanks and took the note with her as she headed out the door to meet Hallie for lunch at Jenna’s restaurant. Then she had a truckload of errands to run. She might as well make herself scarce until the police finished combing the building later today. Hopefully.
A fifteen-minute drive through busy suburban streets brought her to the white stucco and half-timbered restaurant in Lakeville. Sam stepped into the welcome of savory and delicate aromas. Her gaze searched the wood-beamed dining room for Hallie. She spotted her, sleekly groomed in a tailored green pantsuit, waiting at a cloth-covered table. Sam waved and Hallie answered with a wide grin. Sam settled opposite her friend, and they ordered their favorites—seafood fetuccini alfredo for Hallie and a chicken salad pita with a garlic dill pickle for herself.
“You look frazzled.” Hallie spread her napkin on her lap. “You need to ease up and take time to smell the roses.”
Sam wrinkled her nose. “How about the calla lilies?”
Hallie’s eyebrows climbed. “Spill your guts, girl.”
By the time Sam finished telling about the police intrusion yesterday, the Davidson disturbance last night, and the flowers on her desk this morning, her friend was leaning halfway across the table, jaw slack.
“Oh, hon.” She settled back. “And I thought a reporter’s life was adventurous.”
Sam sniffed. “This feels more like a trial.”
“The Perils of Samantha Reid.” Jenna’s words and chuckle brought Sam’s head around.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to get the whole scoop, as Hal might say.” Jenna winked a hazel eye. “That Ryan fellow sounds like a dish. Better keep him.”
“I second the motion.” Hallie lifted a hand and waggled slim fingers.
Sam scowled from one to the other. “Romance has no place in my life right now, and certainly not in his. He’s got a murder investigation swirling around him.” She groaned at the conspiratorial look her friends exchanged. Thank goodness, the food came just then, and
